


New Year's Eve

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bioshock - Freeform, Crossover, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kuzupeko - Freeform, Love Letters, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-03 15:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11535186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: 1968:The world struggles.Paradise fades.Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, historians salvage a series of documents that chronicle just a small part of a much bigger story.BioShock AU.





	1. New Year’s Eve, 1948

**Author's Note:**

> Knowledge of the BioShock franchise and universe will provide a deeper understanding of underlying themes and motifs, but is ultimately unrequired to enjoy this fic. A quick read of the Setting section on the [BioShock wikipedia page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BioShock#Setting) should be enough of an explanation for those who are unfamiliar.

****It’s really none of his business.

It’s hard not to notice her though. Not because she’s particularly flashy, or that she’s the only other Japanese person in the room, just about, but because her group is so goddamn _loud,_ and she’s the only one not saying anything. Hell, not even the band can drown them out. He didn’t think these upper crust folk could be as loud as any other scoundrel from the Bronx, but a few glasses of booze make a whole world of difference, don’t they?

She’s trying, he _thinks._ She’s certainly proficient at gaping like a fish, starting her sentences and closing her mouth when one of her friends interrupts. _Strange friends,_ he notes, _and all men too._

They look the snooty sort, with their thirty dollar tuxedos and receding hairlines. The guy directly across from her is pale, and wearing a ridiculous paper party hat and thick old specs; he’s the one who’s been gabbing the most all night, and the one who seems to command the group’s attention. Next to him is a guy who keeps flailing his arms when he talks; the lady has to lean back to keep her distance. Beside him is a man who has one of the most annoying laughs he’s ever heard. And the last guy, well… An umbrella might be the best option when conversing with a guy like that.

It’s _really_ none of his business.

Despite that, he keeps them in his periphery while he makes his rounds, delivering booze and cocktail weenies to other drunk rich socialites. He can only partially hear what they’re talking about—some sciencey crap, if he could hazard a guess—but it doesn’t matter, because she can’t get a single word in.

He’s pissed at her. He’s pissed _for_ her. They’ve done nothing but yap over her the entire night, so he’s only half-mindful when he says what he says while he’s refilling their wine.

“Hey,” he says, “why don’t you let the lady speak for once, huh?”

All four men stop mid-sentence and stare at him. The silence is deafening, especially compared to their earlier racket. The lady looks the most surprised out of all of them. She meets his gaze for just a second, wide red eyes beneath long lashes.

Old Specs’ brings the matter back at hand. He sputters, and lets out a disbelieving snort. “Well I hardly think that’s any of _your_ business.”

_You got that right,_ his brain screams. His mouth moves faster than his brain can keep up though. “I’m just sayin’ she’s got as much right to be in this conversation as you do. If you shut up long enough, you’d know that.”

Old Specs’ pasty face flushes deep red. It makes the vein on his forehead pop out all the more. “Why— I— You insolent little guttersnipe— What right do you have to talk to me like that? You ought to pay more mind doing your job than barging into affairs you know nothing about. Of all the _nerve._ Just who do you think you are?!” He points, right in his face, and the glitter on his hat glints in his eyes.

The people in the immediate vicinity have grown quiet, turning and staring openly. Even a few of the band members have craned their necks to take a peek at the commotion. There are dozens of eyes on him. _Her_ eyes are on him too, but it’s her gaze he avoids most of all, for some reason. His fingers curl tight against his palms.

He ought to give him a piece of his mind, slap his finger out of his face and sock him in the jaw, right in the middle of the ballroom. But amid the silk suits, and party hats, and streamers hanging off their shoulders, Fuyuhiko is hit with the firm reminder of where he is, swallowed up in the crowd. Rich folk, societal folk, looking down on him. Drunk and loud and dressed in all manner of excess, but somehow above him nonetheless.

_Insignificant._

“Well?!” Old Specs presses.

“Nobody,” Fuyuhiko hisses, dropping his gaze. He’s nobody. “My mistake.”

He pushes through the crowd to reach the kitchen, shouldering past line chefs and servers. When he’s safely out of sight, he slams his knuckles against the dry wall.

That was dumb.

That was _stupid._

_None of his business._

Of course, it’s not like he _doesn’t_ expect to be ratted out, not after that stunt. His manager finds him, steam coming out of his ears.

“Do you have _any_ idea what sort of trouble you’ve caused? I have Alistair Alwin out there thinking I’m running a madhouse for hiring one of your kind on my staff! On New Year’s Eve, of all occasions! Do you know how much that man is worth?! One bad word and he could ruin my entire business!”

“I wasn’t trying to cause trouble,” Fuyuhiko mutters, clenched fists hidden behind his back.

“Shut your mouth! I don’t care what your reasons were. How do you expect to pay for the damages you’ve caused me?!” His manager swipes a hand over his sweaty forehead, and gestures wildly to the door. “Get lost. Leave your name badge and go. I don’t wanna see your sorry mug ever again. Don’t expect any peanuts from all this. Empty out your pockets too, I want whatever you made in tips, every last penny. You’re lucky I don’t tell this whole town about you, you worthless, good-for-nothing street urchin—”

“Excuse me.”

They turn their heads.

It’s the lady from before, standing at the doorway, arms crossed and brows lowered. “I think I would like to dispute that decision,” she says. Those bright red eyes that seemed so lost before have hardened into something more intense, piercing.

His manager fumbles. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you shouldn’t be back here—”

“Ignoring the fact that you just threatened to withhold his wages, your employee was very commendable. Many of my colleagues approached me after he so bravely spoke his mind. They were very impressed with how he handled the situation, and we would all be very upset should you move forward with your decision.”

“But— Ma’am, we—”

“—We’d _certainly_ think twice before attending anymore gatherings catered by your business from letting go of one of your most respectable staff members. It leaves us to wonder if you yourself support the morals your employees so boldly display. Is that what you are promoting? _Disrespect?”_

So she has a voice after-all. Fuyuhiko glances over at his manager, who looks like he’s swallowed a fly.

“Of course not,” he appeases. “This is clearly a… a big misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.” To his surprise, his manager pats him woodenly on the shoulder. “Fine job you did back there, boy. Keep up the good work.”

The lady’s hard expression doesn’t twitch. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to thank your employee personally.” She turns her chin up defiantly and waves her hand. “You may leave.”

His manager’s jaw goes slack. Fuyuhiko wonders if all men look so stupid when they’re finally called out on their bullshit. His manager gapes for a second more before snapping his mouth shut and walking back into the ballroom.

Fuyuhiko unclenches his fists.

“Hot damn,” he exhales in one big breath. “Thanks for the save. Um, ma’am.” An hour ago he’d been tearing his hair out over her hesitancy, and now she just waltzes in and kicks his manager out of _his own damn kitchen._

“Please. There’s no need to be so formal. And I should be thanking you,” she says. Her eyes have changed again, still a ghost of that intensity he just witnessed, but softer around the edges. “For earlier. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.”

“Oh, that. Don’t mention it.” He scratches his temple sheepishly. He’s more surprised that anyone had agreed with him in the first place. “Did your friends really say all that about me?”

“Oh. Um.” She goes a bit pink, and her gaze flits to the side, conspicuously. “Not _quite_ …” She meets his eyes again and gives him a meaningful look.

_Oh._ He’s speechless, eyebrows up to his hairline. He tries hard to contain himself, but it escapes him, in a sharp, wheezing sound at the back of his throat, and soon he’s doubled over, arms wrapped around his middle, laughing.

“Holy mackerel,” he says, still laughing. He’s _severely_ underestimated her. “But thank you all the same. My sister would be pissed at me for throwing away a perfectly good paycheck over a couple of jackasses.”

Her gaze drifts to the side again, wavering and lofty. “They’re actually very… capable in their fields,” she drawls.

“That sounds like something you’d say about a couple of jackasses when you don’t wanna call them jackasses.”

She laughs, in a way that’s short, and light, and breathtakingly beautiful.

“Would you like to join me for a drink?” she asks.

_Fuck, would I._ He rubs the back of his head and cranes his neck towards the door, because he should at least _try_ to look conflicted. “I probably _shouldn’t_ while I’m on the job?”

“I won’t tell.”

That’s good enough for him. He grins. “Then I’d be happy to, Miss…?”

“Professor,” she corrects, smiling, “Peko Pekoyama.”

“I’m Fuyuhiko,” he says. “Nice to meet you, professor.”

They find an empty guest room across the hall where they can hide from his manager. They keep the lights off, so that the bright city lights outside fill the room with a soft glow. The New Year’s Eve party is nothing but a murmuring buzz in the background.

Turns out she’s a biochemist. She’s two years older than him, and employed at a research institute in Manhattan. She’s here at her work colleagues’ request (“Making business connections,” she says, with a distasteful frown), but she’s happy not to be a part of it anymore. He is too.

He doesn’t understand more than twenty percent of what she tells him about work and biomedics, but he doesn’t mind, because she seems happy enough to be conversing with someone who won’t interrupt her, for once, and it’s still interesting in its own right. He blushes when he lets the F-word slip, accidentally, but she wrinkles her nose when he tries to correct himself. She doesn’t mind at all that he swears like a sailor. _In fact,_ she tells him, _it’s actually_ _a bit of_ _a relief,_ _compared to the stuffy_ _place_ _s I_ _mus_ _t_ _frequen_ _t._

He hides his smile in his drink.

He can’t imagine spending his weekdays around someone like Old Specs. He tells her as much, and her eyes widen.

“Old Specs?” she repeats.

“Ah.” He flushes. “The guy with the big glasses who blew a fuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with glasses, I mean!” he tacks on quickly. (The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement.) “Just… didn’t know his name, so that’s what I called him in my head?”

He lists all the rest, since she’s curious: Arm Waver and Donkey Laugh and Spit Shower. She laughs herself silly over his dumb nicknames, belatedly clapping her hands over her mouth to keep quiet. Her laugh is infectious though, or maybe it’s just the wine talking, but he’s shockingly proud of himself for pulling such a candid reaction from her, so honest and plain.

She sobers up quicker than he anticipates, and points her gaze to her shoes.

“They don’t take me seriously,” she says, picking at the skirt of her taffeta dress. Her eyes go far away, distant.

“Yeah, no shit,” he says. “They’re fucking idiots is why. Too infatuated with the sound of their own voices.” He rolls his shoulders back and slumps more comfortably in his chair, wine glass dangling precariously in one hand. “Just wait until you prove them wrong, huh? Nothing better than seeing the look on a bastard’s face when you best him at his own game.”

She refocuses her gaze on him, and her mouth curves up just enough to be purposeful. “I admire your tenacity,” she says warmly.

_Shit._

He’s saved from any embarrassment by the cheers of the partygoers back in the ballroom, counting down for the new year. Peko looks to the door.

_Eight… Seven… Six…_

“‘Bout that time,” he says, straightening his posture.

“It seems so.”

_Three… Two… One…_

The ballroom erupts with music and applause. The night sky comes alive with shimmering fireworks. Her face is briefly illuminated by bursts of greens and reds and yellows. They clink glasses.

“Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

He sips from his glass, the sour-sweetness settling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t expected to spend his first moments of the new year with a girl he’d just met when he’d taken the job, but it’s made the noise and crowds and late hours worth it, no contest.

He glances back at the door. “… I should probably actually get back to work now. Help with the clean up and all that.” He can think of a hundred other things he’d rather be doing than sweeping up confetti and balloons, but he’s almost lost his pay once already, and bills don’t wait around.

“Yes, I should be returning home,” she says with a nod.

He stands and helps her to her feet. They leave the wine glasses where they are.

“Thank you for keeping me company for the night,” she says.

“Don’t mention it,” he says.

It ends like that. Polite smiles and awkward stances and longing stares. He chews the inside of his cheeks. She tucks an errant strand of hair that’s escaped its pin behind her ear, and flashes him another smile before she turns to leave.

_Don’t go._

“Wait,” he blurts out. He has to shove his hand into his pocket to keep from reaching after her. (He’ll damn himself for speaking out of turn for the second time that night if he has to.) She turns, eyebrows high. “Can I see you again, professor?”

She smiles. “Yes,” she says.

And they do.


	2. 1951

****He wakes to the sound of crying.

For a second, he forgets where he is. A dream? Hallucination? It seems like a more plausible explanation than the reality of someone crying in his room. He rubs his eyes and looks to the other side of the bed. Peko isn’t lying beside him. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at a letter clutched tightly in her hand. Her knuckles are pressed over her mouth to muffle her sobs.

Peko never, ever cries.

He shifts to half-sitting, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Hey,” he calls softly.

Her back goes ramrod straight. In one fluid motion, she wipes her eyes with the heel of one hand and stuffs the letter beneath her pillow with the other.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, turning to face him. She sounds remarkably composed, despite the circumstances he’s caught her in, but even in the dim lamplight, he can see the telltale redness rimming her eyes.

His gaze flickers to the pillow. “What’s the matter?” he tries.

“Nothing,” she says, too quick.

He doesn’t want to push it, push her. She’ll come to him when she’s ready. That doesn’t mean he still can’t worry. Not when she was crying. So when he asks slowly, “You sure?” he at least hopes it sounds comforting.

“It’s nothing,” she repeats. “Sorry for waking you. Go back to bed.” Before he can push it any further, she shuts off the lamp and lies back down, facing the wall. The letter beneath her pillow crinkles conspicuously.

Fuyuhiko stares at her back in the darkness. The lines of her shoulders are still tense. She’ll wake up sore if she keeps that up. He sighs and lies back down beside her, throwing one arm over her waist; he fits himself close enough to tickle the back of her neck with his breath. With thoughts of Peko muffling her sobs flitting around his brain, he closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

A minute later, Peko reaches over and turns the lamp back on.

“You won’t tell a soul?” she asks.

“Yeah, ‘course. Cross my heart,” he answers.

She shifts back to sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s focused on a dusty spot on the floor while she searches for the words. She looks tired, like when she spends hours staying up late to finish a report her colleagues have thrown into her lap.

She rubs restless circles into her elbows. She won’t look at him, and that makes him more anxious than he can say.

“Do you remember a few weeks ago, when that man sent me that letter?”

“Yeah?”

It had come as a surprise to them both. A letter, seemingly out of nowhere, from one of the most successful magnates in America. She’d been flustered, almost shy when she’d shown it to him. He’d been suspicious, at first; he’d never heard of this Ryan guy before, but if he were smart enough to recognize Peko for her talents, then he couldn’t be a bad guy.

“He’s been writing me more letters since then.” She pulls the letter out from beneath her pillow and spares him a small glance over her shoulder. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“React to what?”

His heart rate spikes. Peko _always_ gets to the heart of the matter. She only dances around the subject when she’s feeling guilty. A million different scenarios pop into his head— _she’s leaving you,_ s _he’s finally realized how pathetic you are,_ _she’s found someone better,_ _someone who can take care of her_ _—_ all of them ending with his heart bleeding on the floor.

She blows out frustrated air through her nose. “I don’t know how else to word, so I’ll just say it.” _(I’m leaving you I’m leaving you I’mleavingyouI’m—)_ “Mr. Ryan has managed to build a city at the bottom of the sea.”

He laughs before he can stop himself, a breathy, disbelieving sound. Of all terrible possibilities, that was the last thing he’d expected to hear. She must be joking, to soften the blow perhaps, but her eyes are hard and her expression is stony. His smile dissolves. And truly he should have known better, because Peko doesn’t joke like that during times like these.

“No shit?” he breathes.

She nods. “He calls it Rapture. A gathering of the greatest minds in the world. He’s told me many things about it. He built it as a paradise to allow artists and scientists to thrive without… oppression.” Her words pick up, eager and restless. “It wouldn’t be like it is here. It’s different… It would be— no more waiting around for government funding. No more work colleagues leaving my name out of the reports.” The corners of her mouth lift, but she sobers up quickly. “The letter I received from him today was an invitation to his city. He’s invited me to live there.”

“Fuck,” he says, out of habit.

He doesn’t know how to react; his body tries to guess. Something like a half-smile pulls at his cheeks; it feels misplaced upon his face. What is this feeling? Relief? Anxiety? Whatever it is, it makes his blood buzz with unfamiliarity.

“That’s… that’s good, right? It fucking sounds good. I— Fuck, I dunno, I guess I never really thought about living in a city at the bottom of the sea before. Is it— I mean— What do we have to do? Do we write him back or—”

“Fuyuhiko,” she says slowly, eyes still turned to the floor. “It would be _only_ me.”

His smile evaporates. “… Oh.”

She doesn’t need to say more. The choice is fucking obvious. He’s not sure why he’s so surprised. He’d been bracing himself for something like this for months, probably. All her complaints, her hard work, her sacrifices have been culminating to this singular moment. A chance to come out on top. Who the hell is he to deny her that?

_She’s leaving you._

Cold air hits his cheek. They’d left the window open, just a sliver. She had complained about it getting too stuffy at night. It was a small, tangible comfort he could give her, because he could.

Her voice is a meek, trembling sound in the silence.

“What should I do?” she asks.

His gut twists. “What?”

“I want to know what you think I should do.”

The knot in his stomach tangles further until he thinks he might throw up. “Don’t do this, Peko, c’mon. Don’t put this all on me, it’s not—”

“—I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to know what you think.”

He stares at her incredulously. He’s never understood it, how she can act as though she has no opinions of her own during times it matters the most. “What do you want me to say, huh?” He shuffles out from under the sheets and swings his legs over the side of the bed. It’s suddenly unbearable to look at the pale yellow glow of the bedside lamp. “This is about you. It’s _your_ choice.”

“This is about both of us. We’re— We’ve built something together. You have as much say in this as I do.”

_Bullshit._

“Well, you seemed happy enough to hide it from me before.”

“I—” Her face contorts, taut and unhappy; it’s a look she rarely ever wears. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I have no excuse— I’m sorry—”

He doesn’t answer, partly because he doesn’t know how, and that hurts her even more.

He should apologize. Tell her he didn’t mean for his emotions to get the better of him, once again, but the words refuse to surface, clogged up like glue on his tongue. So when he reaches for something to say, what comes out barely scratches the surface of his feelings.

“You should go,” he says.

He hears the sickly way her breath hitches. “You want me to leave?”

“That’s not what I _said,”_ he stresses. “All I’m saying is you’ve worked too damn hard to let one guy get in the way of your dreams—”

“I never thought you were in the way at all. I just—”

“—Bullshit. You hid this from me for a reason, and it wasn’t just because they told you to.”

“—I’m sorry. It was wrong of me not to tell you. I’ll write back right away and tell Mr. Ryan I’m not interested, if that’s what you want, then—”

“ _Forget about me!!_ Give a shit about yourself for _once,_ Peko!—”

“Fuyuhiko—”

“—You can’t just _do_ that, okay? You can’t just forget about your dreams outta nowhere because you think that’s what I want or—”

“—It might have been my dream before, but that was before I met you—”

“—Oh, _come on._ We both know I’m not important enough to warrant that kind of change.”

Peko grows quiet. His chest is heaving; his nerves feel strained, pulled tight like a wire. (He thinks somebody may have thumped a fist against the adjoining wall to get them to shut up.)

Her eyes pierce through him so hard, he has to look away. She says softly, “Are we still talking about the letter?”

Peko always gets to the heart of the matter.

“Fuyuhiko, please,” she sighs, pulling her knees onto the bed. “We’ve talked about this. I love you for _you.”_

In paradise, love would do all the bullshit nonsense everyone says it does, but it doesn’t. It’s not. Love gets her a tiny-ass apartment in the slummiest neighborhood of the Bronx with rent he can barely afford. Love gets her strange stares from people they don’t even know. She’s never complained. She’s never asked for more. That doesn’t stop the inadequacy feeling like a ten-ton brick in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe that’s why paradise seems so tempting.

He blames himself most of all. He’d tried to be patient with himself. He thought they had time. He’d yearned for the days when whispers of _I love you_ weren’t immediately followed by thoughts of _But_ _I don’t deserve you._

“Yeah,” he says, “and maybe that was a mistake.”

He’s glad he can’t see her face now, can’t see the fractures he’s chipped into her countenance. He hunches forward, elbows balanced on his knees and forehead pressed into his palm.

(Sometimes he wishes they’d met later: a time in his life where he’d be free and well-adjusted and _something_ _._ Maybe they would’ve met in paradise, in a place like Rapture. Maybe paradise would’ve been more than just a thing.)

The mattress creaks. He feels her fingertips, ghosting along the ridge of his shoulder blade. When he doesn’t move, she presses closer, wrapping her arms around his chest. Her cheek feels hot against his spine, a sharp and lingering contrast against the cool night breeze blowing in from the open window. Either she’s shaking, or he is, but they share the tremors, joined together as one.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, dragging his palm over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says, so close the words vibrate against his back. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“No. Listen to me, Peko.” He twists around and takes one of her hands in his. “This is about you. Okay? It’s your invitation, so what do _you_ want? And be honest. Please.”

He’s brave enough to take a good look at Peko’s face now, a really good look. Her eyes aren’t as dewy anymore, but she still looks just as tired. Her brow and her nose and her mouth are creased in all the wrong places. The lamplight accentuates the lines around her eyes. It makes her look older than she actually is.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says, all in one breath, and it sounds like the words have been pulled out of her belly.

It’s not a proper answer to his question, he realizes, but it says enough.

They’ve always been this way, at odds with the world around them. Under no circumstances should a self-made biochemist have ever ended up with a down-on-his-luck street urchin like him, but here they are. Inconceivable, unimaginable, but here nonetheless. It feels like they could last a hundred more years, if something like this weren’t swinging over their heads like a pendulum.

But even at her most vulnerable, Peko’s strong as hell. He’s known that from the day he met her, so if she’s still hanging on, then he’ll hang on too. (They’ll drown together, if they have to.)

He decides.

“Then I’ll just have to meet you there.”

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“You’ll go to Rapture. And I’ll meet you there.”

Her eyes are big; not like she’s surprised, but like she’s heard a very special secret. “How?”

He honestly doesn’t know. He’s never thought that far ahead, for any of his plans. But he can’t stop now, not when she’s looking at him like he’s responsible for the stars in the sky. “I’m not always gonna be on time,” he says carefully. It sounds right, so far. He pushes on. “Hell, I’m late for a lot of things. But if it’s for you, I’m sure I can do anything.”

Peko drops her head. The light is angled in such a way that it leaves her eyes in shadow. For a second, he panics, fearing he may have severed the last cord keeping them together. But then, she reaches over, and tugs him closer, fingers grazing against his hipbone.

“Will you promise you’ll come for me?” she asks. Her head dips low enough to brush the curve of his cheek with her eyelashes.

“Cross my heart.” He traces an X across his chest, right where his heart is; her eyes follow the motion.

(It’s not a _lie_ if he’s unsure. It’s not the same weight in the pit of his belly as when he says it doesn’t bother him that all her colleagues think they’re an odd pair. He could promise her love. He could promise her effort. But promises that hinge on _results_ still make him skirt backwards with his back against the wall.)

He cups her cheeks with both hands and tilts her chin up until she’s meeting his gaze again. “Hey. You believe in me?” (And out of everything they’ve discussed tonight, strangely this is the question that makes him feel the most vulnerable, stripped of all his defenses.)

“Yes,” she answers, so plain and sure his breath catches in his throat. How did he ever live without her, he wonders. With Peko in his corner, he doesn’t think he’ll ever need anything else in his life. That’s always been the foundation of their bond: belief, and reassurance.

His chest burns with the stinging blend of fear and determination. It’s not enough anymore just to want. He has to change, _rise,_ like an unshakable mountain against a relentless gale. He can be that for her. He has to be that for her.

“Let’s get back to sleep,” he offers.

She nods. They shuffle back under the covers, tucked against each other. The letter is a pale spot in the darkness, lying upon the bedside table.

Sleep doesn’t come easy for either of them.

Peko sends her response. Within a few days she receives another letter detailing the time and place for her departure, just at the end of autumn.

And that’s that.

Peko’s plans are far more meticulous than his will ever be. She transfers funds from her bank account bit by bit. She puts less effort into her workload at the institute, but not so much that her colleagues or students grow suspicious. She takes home the research folios they’ve compiled over the years with the excuse that she’s putting in extra hours of work, but really, she plans to take them with her.

She doesn’t sleep at her apartment at all in the days leading up to her departure. She comes and goes, mostly to grab a few things, but she chooses to spend every night at his apartment instead. It’s far more intimate than they’d normally allow themselves, but he doesn’t complain. By the third day, she leaves her key behind.

She tries to make the most of her remaining time with him. He argues that this won’t be the last time they’ll see each other, so there’s no need to act like it is, but she counters that she’s leaving New York behind nonetheless. (He has no defense for that, and he doesn’t bother fighting it; he could never deny her any happiness she could want.) They watch movies, and have dinner, and make love. It’s bliss, and for a moment, he can almost forget that the love of his life will be leaving him indefinitely.

She decides not to take much with her. Just a few books and small personal effects. All the clothes she packs fit in one suitcase. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she were leaving on a short vacation.

He hovers by her side while she double-checks and triple-checks she has everything she needs. He’d asked to see her off at the dock, but she’d said it’d be too risky. She couldn’t predict what would happen if she let others see him with her, and she doesn’t want him to be a target for the consequences.

She reaches for him; he takes her hand wordlessly.

“Don’t forget: no one must know,” she says, tapping one finger to her lips. “It’s like I was never here.”

“Too late for that,” he jokes, to mask the pang in his chest.

In all honesty, it’s the perfect plan. She has every opportunity to disappear from the world as she knows it. No one would miss her. Not her colleagues at the research institute, or her students, and she has no parents nor family to speak of.

Just him.

He leans up and kisses her soundly. It’s nothing like the hurried, open-mouthed kisses they’ve exchanged in abundance over the weeks. It’s slow, and lingering, a simple press of the lips against hers. (It’s not goodbye, he reminds himself. It’s not. _It’s not.)_ Her grip briefly tightens around his fingers. When they part, her eyes are bright and her smile is content.

_Don’t go._

If he asked, she would stay. She wouldn’t even hesitate. She’d drop her bags and unpack her things and never speak of the idea ever again, and he can’t do that to her. He wants her to be free, to grow however the hell she wants. He doesn’t want to be the chain that keeps her potential tethered. He couldn’t bear that.

Slowly, he untangles his fingers from hers.

He’s not starting this with one foot out the door. He has to hold onto hope, wherever it is, so when he says, “I’ll see you soon,” it feels like the closest thing to the truth he can get.

She nods, and smiles in a way that makes her face look masterfully crafted. With one last look at the ratty old apartment they sometimes shared, she takes a deep breath, picks up her bags, and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

The click of her heels echoes down the stairwell, growing fainter and fainter.

He counts backwards, from ten to one. _Eight…_ _S_ _even…_ _S_ _ix…_

The mask of his composure cracks. His blood thrums in his ears, unbearably loud. His heart beats erratically, the rhythm of _Peko, Peko, Peko_ tattooed against his chest. It feels like he’s forgetting something important, like a part of him can’t be considered complete unless he finds it. He wants to throw open the door and fly down the stairs and scream, _Wait!_ But he doesn’t know what he’s forgetting, or what to do, or what to say, and it’s almost certainly too late for him to run after her.

By the time he reaches _one,_ he crumples to his knees, right there in front of the door. His breath stutters out in pants, too short, and too quick. It makes his lungs feel too small for his body. He reaches out blindly, fingers finding purchase in the grooves of the doorframe. Peeling paint chips under his fingernails as he claws uselessly at the old wood. He stays there, kneeling where she left him, until the heaving, shuddering gasps leave his throat aching and raw.

_Much too late for that._


End file.
